


Wherever the Tide Takes Us

by DejaBoo



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:46:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21978295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DejaBoo/pseuds/DejaBoo
Summary: Stan sighs, carefully burying his face in Ford’s hair. His salt and pepper curls tickle Stan’s lips and cheeks. He can smell the sea spray in them, the smell of home, and he can nearly imagine he’s back on the shores of Glass Shard Beach. He listens to the sounds of waves lapping against the boat and focuses on the softness of his brother’s hair and, as he starts to drift off, his mind drifts with him to a simpler time.
Relationships: Stanford Pines/Stanley Pines
Comments: 22
Kudos: 60





	Wherever the Tide Takes Us

**Author's Note:**

> I was going for some cozy wintry vibes with this first chapter.  
> and I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING THE DIALOGUE FOR THIS. Love these boys so much.
> 
> There's a high chance I'll write more for this! It'll be listed as complete for now but I have lots of ideas.
> 
> Please Enjoy!

He wakes with a start; his entire body jolts and his eyes snap open, wide and searching frantically as the apocalyptic scene he had been dreaming of is replaced with a dark void of nothingness. The only sounds he can hear are the hammering in his chest and a rhythmic sloshing and creaking. He feels nauseous from the rocking back and forth to the time of the haunting sounds. 

Amid the darkness, he begins to make out a soft light filtering in through a porthole. As the drowsily panicked haze of his mind lifts with his consciousness, he groans in annoyance. 

Would these awful nightmares ever give it a rest? Because he desperately wanted some himself. Bill would be proud of himself if he were still alive; still finding a way to torment one of the Pines even without occupying his mindscape. 

But he isn’t alive. He’s dead and he’s gone for good. 

Stanley groans again, rubbing his tired eyes and feeling the sweat that had collected on his forehead and face. Suddenly feeling like he was broiling underneath the covers, he kicks them off and is immediately hit with frigid air. He shivers and instinctively hugs himself, rubbing his exposed arms. 

The Arctic Ocean. Right. He wasn’t huge fan of this climate, if he was being honest. He used to think winters in Oregon were pretty harsh, but they were nothing compared to below forty nights, not to mention how dicey blizzards made things on the open water. He had expected rain and thunder and highwaters (couldn’t say he entirely saw the krakens coming), but snowstorms were a whole other can of worms. 

He groans some more as he slowly pushes himself up with his elbows, his back aching with every move. The cramped, uncomfortable twin mattress groans back at him, each of its bulging springs stretching in relief as he sits up to pull the cover around his shoulders. 

Stanley squints at the porthole. If the moonlight was any indication, a storm had yet to roll in. Stanford usually kept an eye on the weather, or, rather, he kept his eye on his new-fangled rectangular doohickey with a glowing screen that all the kids had these days, and it apparently told him what the weather was. Despite the weather-predicting tech that Dipper and Mabel had sent their great uncles, the Arctic Sea can be quite unpredictable and extreme. 

Stanford seems pretty at home with unpredictable and extreme, however. As for Stanley, well, he thinks maybe after all these years he’s starting to come around to it. 

When he looks to the bed adjacent to his, he is unsurprised to see it empty. He sighs swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. He probably wasn’t going to be able to sleep any more tonight anyway, he might as well pick on his brother for his night owl tendencies. 

He drags his old bones toward their kitchen/living/dining space, his sore knees aching in protest. Hauling that anchor up and down every day was probably doing a number on him, but, yes Ford, he could handle it by himself and, no Ford, he wasn’t refusing help just because he wanted to show off his brawn. Once he reaches the threshold of the room, he’s managed to somewhat straighten himself up from the hunched over posture he'd been in from getting up. 

Stanford had transformed their dining booth into a makeshift study. Books and maps were scattered all over the surface of the small fold down table, yet there seemed to be some kind of organization in the disarray. Amongst the mess was a small bag of jellybeans and the tiny heater that on most days their lives revolved around. 

Stanford doesn’t notice his brother; he appears to be deep in concentration holding a map with various x’s and scribbled notes. His eyebrows are knit together above his glasses. The small table lamp casts a light on the lens hiding his eyes. He looks serious, cold. Kinda like he looked in the nightmare. 

“Sixer?” 

Ford jumps at the sudden voice. His glasses fall lopsided. He adjusts them and stares alarmed for brief moment at the source of the voice, but his tense expression quickly morphs into a relaxed, warm smile. He sighs putting his hand on his chest. 

“Ah, Stan. You startled me,” he says in hushed tone with a light chuckle. 

Something like relief washes over Stan and he can’t help smiling back as he makes his way to take a seat next to his brother. Stanford inches farther back into the booth to accommodate him, not mentioning he could have seated himself across from him. 

“Heh, what’cha so jumpy for? Scared I’d catch ya in the act. Again,” he says gesturing to the clutter before them, shaking his head in mock shame. 

“Guilty. Again,” Stanford shrugs. 

“Really? Come on, you can do better than that,” Stan lightly elbows him. “Maybe you had to... I don’t know, brush up on your Norse or... prepare for the next eldritch horror we’ll have to face or... get away from your twin brother’s deafening snoring. Probably...probably that last one, right?” 

“Heh heh, not this time... actually, I was looking over our maps and contemplating our route. We’ve covered the Arctic quite thoroughly by now,” he looks to the device attached to his wrist. The ‘nerd bracelet’ as Stan called it. “The anomaly tracker has been detecting a more concentrated amount of activity South of us.” 

“Does that mean we’ll finally get to go somewhere a little warmer? I’ve been freezin’ my ass off out here.” 

“Look, that’s completely on you. I told you I’d let you borrow one of my turtlene-” 

“I ain’t wearin’ that ugly thing,” Stanely waves him off and to this Ford appears to take great offense. 

He loudly scoffs and turns his whole body toward Stan who is biting his lip, not trying very hard to hide his smirk and the snickers that were beginning to escape. 

“C’mon Sixer, it’s tacky.” Someone needed to say it. 

“How do think Mabel would feel-” Ford starts in the exact way Stan expected. 

“Mabel is a thirteen-year-old little girl and Mabel can make anything look cute.” 

“Oh well, excuse me. I didn’t realize you had suddenly become an avid fashion aficionado. I’ll have you know these sweaters were made in the Hacci Dimension and there is no other material in the multiverse that keeps in heat better.” Ford sticks his nose up with comical exaggeration. 

“Woah touched a nerve there,” Stan laughs heartily as he roughly pats his brother’s back. “Sounds like those aliens or whatever really sold you on that, but-” 

“They’re called the Weftwarps and they've built a lovely community for themselves... or I guess knitted... a lovely community.” 

“Right, but anyway I find it hard to believe since you wore that thing in eighty plus degree heat during the summer.” Stan points out to which Ford merely shrugs. 

“My body is perhaps more accustomed to extreme heat than the average person,” Ford explains lacing his hands behind his head and Stan tries to ignore the sudden self-satisfied tone in his voice. “I did spend a few years in the Desert Dimension.” 

“Of course you did.” 

“It was quite the severe place to traverse. Not fun, and it was all because I misread the dimensional translator. I really thought that sentient cactus fellow had given me directions to the Dessert Dimension.” 

“Hah! Oh poindexter, who knew a genius like you could make such a rookie mistake.” Stan pats his arm. 

Ford merely responds with a weak ‘humph’ as he pops a jellybean into his mouth. 

Stanley leans back with a smile having already forgotten all about the nightmare that had disturbed him just moments ago. This back and forth with his brother came so easily now. Just like it had when they were kids, as if all the bitter fighting and years of separation had never happened. They effortlessly fell back into their old routine and it was almost surreal for Stan. 

It was surreal to him that reality was more comforting than the nightmare. For thirty years, the uncertainty of where Ford was and if he was okay or not had been more terrifying for Stan than whatever ghastly scenario his tired mind would dream up. 

But Ford is here now. He’s here and he’s very much alive and well, and they’re on their boat together. Finally, fulfilling a childhood dream that had gotten so far away from Stan he had lost all hope of ever seeing it through. Not to mention the loving family and the town that considered him a hero waiting for him whenever they wanted to return home. 

Stan had everything he could have ever wanted. 

Well... almost everything. But he was happy enough as they were now. Happier than he’s ever been, really. So, even though he’s gambling man at heart, he thinks this time he won’t take the risk. 

“Anyway, I was thinking we could dock in Ireland,” Stanford says breaking the comfortable silence and pulling Stanley out of his thoughts. 

Stan realizes he’s been staring at the side of his brother’s face the entire time and averts his gaze, but not before noticing the black blemish on his broad chin. He double takes and eventually identifies it as soot. Probably from his hazardous alternative to shaving. Stan resists the urge to lick his thumb and rub it off. 

“If we start on our course tomorrow, it should only take us...hmm, about half a week I’d say,” Ford continues. He smirks and looks to Stan, “You haven’t been banned there have you?” He sounds to be joking at first, but there is a hint of genuine concern once he seems to consider it. 

“Heh, not yet. Just give me a couple days in Dublin.” 

“Really? You need two whole days. You used to able to get run off the boardwalk in only two seconds. Are you losing your moxie, Stanley?” 

“What? C’mon give me a break in my old age, Stanford. The boardwalk is the boardwalk, Ireland is an entire country.” 

“True, true,” Ford nods resting his chin on his hand. “But... I got thrown out of Lottocron Nine just a few hours after my arrival. So, hypothetically, if I can get exiled from an entire dimension in such a short amount of time, an entire country would be nothing for you in that same amount of time, right?” 

“Is that a challenge?” 

“Definitely not.” Stanford states completely deadpan. He sticks two of his six fingers into the jellybean bag and finds it empty. Before he can even ask, Stan gets up to fetch him another one. 

“Aw, you’re no fun,” he mutters as he rummages through the cupboard. He has to squint to see in the darkness as the previous moonlight had suddenly disappeared without his noticing. He wonders briefly if a storm might roll in after all. 

“But if I’m not immediately kicked out, this could be a decent financial opportunity.” He says vaguely with a scheming look in his eye that Ford knows is trouble. 

He finds behind the bag of beans, wedged in the very back is a bag of Toffee Peanuts. Ford recoils at the sight of them when Stan shows him in offering. 

“No thank you,” he says with emotion, particularly disgust. Stan shrugs and tosses Ford his jellybeans. He sits back down, licking his lips as he pops the bag of chewy nightmares (treats) open. 

“And what do you mean by that?” Ford questions his previous comment, eyeing Stan suspiciously. 

“Well, you know, Ireland is ‘sposed to have those... what were they called again? Those, you know, little green guys who are supposed to be at the end of rainbows and who sneak into your house and steal all your brandy when you’re not lookin’.” 

“Leprechauns.” Ford easily recognizes and Stan nods. “...because of their pots of gold, right?” Ford quickly pieces together. 

“Bingo,” Stanley barely manages to say through his full mouth. “It’s not illegal if it’s stealin’ from a mythical being, right? If they can’t even prove its existence, then they can’t prove I stole from it.” He starts to laugh but immediately chokes. He loudly coughs as he hits his chest. 

“Leprechauns have rights, Stanely! They’re people too, you know... kind of... just tinier and with a higher alcohol consumption capacity. Besides, I’m pretty sure the Irish government protects them and their possessions since Leprechauns were added to their endangered species list.” 

“Well,” Stan starts once he’s recovered from his hacking. “It can’t hurt to try.” 

“Yes it can,” Ford sighs knowing he hadn’t heard a word of what he had just said. “Do you know how sharp their teeth are? They’re like gnomes with accents and even stupider looking clothes.” 

“Eh, those vermin weren’t so bad on their own. Hit ‘em with a broom enough and they’ll eventually leave.” 

Stanford highly doubted it would be that simple, but he figured he wasn’t going to be able to talk Stanley down from this. He didn’t mind too terribly much. It would be a chance to observe them in their natural environment. However, after his encounter with the abomination that is the Leprecorn, he doesn’t have the highest of hopes that this will be an enjoyable experience. 

With Stanley, it might at least be entertaining. He could just picture Stan struggling to carry huge pots of treasure, coins spilling out leaving a trail behind him as he hightails it like a bat out of hell from the feral little men who give chase, nipping at his heels. It was a rather amusing mental image. 

Ford suddenly laughs, surprising Stan. Stan doesn’t know what was funny, but he doesn’t care. 

That warm, low chuckle would have brought him to his knees if he hadn’t been sitting, and already he could feel that pesky, schmaltzy feeling in his stomach. He stares at Ford in dazed, adoring silence. 

“...Wha-what was that about?” Stan asks a moment after Ford stops. 

“Oh, nothing.” Ford waves the question off with a smile. 

They fall into another comfortable silence. Stan can’t believe himself; getting all affected and mushy from just a damn laugh. He’s too old for this kind of shit. 

‘Get over it, Stan,’ he thinks to himself. ‘Stop thinkin’ about it.’ 

He sighs, sinking in his seat and laying his head on the backrest. Trying to distract himself from the all too familiar invasive feelings, something he’s had to do more and more of lately it seemed, he stares out the porthole and notices snowflakes illuminated by one of the boat’s small orange exterior lights. 

“Snow.” Stan states prompting Ford to follow his gaze out the porthole. 

“Mm-hm,” Ford mutters suddenly sounding drowsy. He mirrors his brother’s posture, closing his eyes as he rests his head. “I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s supposed to dissipate by morning.” He ends the statement with a yawn, removing his glasses he rubs his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Stan firmly keeps his eyes on the delicate looking flurry outside. As the silence between them stretches into minutes, Stan focuses on the sound of his brother’s steady breathing. 

He looks down at his hand resting on the table next to Ford’s and thinks he could just reach out a little and hold Ford’s extra finger in his pinky. 

Another intrusive thought he quickly shoots down. It was a realization he had soon after embarking on this trip that he would be constantly fighting against the urge to reach out and touch his brother. Over the course of this trip, he’s had quite a bit of those--realizations. 

He’s realized that no matter how much Ford has changed, he still gets that starry look in his eyes. The same look he had as a kid when they solved mysteries and spoke of adventure together. He still had that same curiosity and wonder for the unexplainable and ran headfirst for it. 

He’s realized that he loves hearing Ford speak and the sound of his voice, not gravelly and rough from years of cigars. As an adult, he hadn’t heard much of Ford’s voice without frustration and disappointment in it. Now, he’s noticed, Ford says ‘thank you’ an awful lot, almost to the point of overdoing it. Just like the constant ‘I’m sorry’s Ford had given while Stan was recovering his memory. 

The most profound realization, however, was that no matter how much he buried them and distracted himself from them and tried to ignore them, he was never going to stop having feelings for Stanford. 

And he knows it’s hopeless. He knows there isn’t a sliver of a chance. So, he keeps it to himself and he always will because- 

His train of thought derails when he feels a weight on his shoulder. Stanford must have fallen asleep; his head had fallen on Stan’s shoulder. Stan pauses for a moment before smiling despite himself and gently resting his head on top of Ford’s. 

This was also something that had happened quite a bit while Stan was getting his memory back. Ford would stay up with him into the wee hours of the night explaining old photographs and home movies as Stan indulged himself in the bowls of bacon and Toffee Peanuts Soos and the kids had provided him. Ford would talk and apologize himself to sleep and as each memory was being restored piece by piece, the closeness of his brother started to take on new meaning. 

Stan sighs, carefully burying his face in Ford’s hair. His salt and pepper curls tickle Stan’s lips and cheeks. He can smell the sea spray in them, the smell of home, and he can nearly imagine he’s back on the shores of Glass Shard Beach. He listens to the sounds of waves lapping against the boat and focuses on the softness of his brother’s hair and, as he starts to drift off, his mind drifts with him to a simpler time. 

“You know, I think I’m going to miss the Arctic.” 

Stan nearly jumps out of his skin when Stanford suddenly speaks up. Stan hurriedly straightens, lifting his head off Ford’s and his blood runs cold wondering if Ford noticed him nuzzling and sniffing his hair like a weirdo. Ford doesn’t budge from his spot on Stan’s shoulder. 

“I-I thought ya fell asleep.” Stan stutters out once he remembers to breath. 

“I did,” Ford says lifting his head and Stan already misses the contact. He stretches his arms and then his back as he yawns. “It was nice to get some sleeping done tonight.” He grabs his glasses and puts them on. 

“Wh- Sixer, you were out for like, ten minutes at most.” 

“Really? That’s pretty good! Quite a bit more than the last few nights.” 

Stan groans wondering how despite Ford’s abysmal sleeping schedule he still somehow manages to look older and more tired than him. 

“Anyway, won’t you miss it too? At least a little bit?” 

“Huh? Miss what now?” Stan blinks but feels a bit relieved as Ford hadn’t seemed to notice his earlier...actions. 

“The Arctic.” He nudges Stan to let him out of the booth. Once he’s up, he already starts on making their morning coffee. “I mean, haven’t we seen some rather incredible things out here?” 

“Yeah...sure,” he says rubbing his chin and thinking of every impossible thing they’ve seen over the course of a few months that most people wouldn’t even see in the course of their whole lives. 

“Well you don’t sound very impressed.” Ford glances over his shoulder looking a little perturbed. 

“I mean... sure we’ve seen some pretty out-there things.” And he was impressed, just not surprised. Living in Gravity Falls for thirty years kinda takes away the shock value to these sorts of things after a while. Ford is still looking at him with an eyebrow raised as if he wants him to elaborate. “Uh...like that indom- andom-abdominal snowman guy or whatever.” 

Ford opens his mouth to correct his grammar, but quickly bites his tongue. Not going there. 

“Nice guy, that yeti. Though, to be honest, I really coulda done without knowing that eggnog is actually milked... from his kind...” Stan shudders. He’ll never drink eggnog the same way ever again. 

“Really? I found it fascinating. It’s incredibly rare to be able to sample fresh, unpasteurized yeti eggnog. In yeti culture, it’s a great act of hospitality to offer some up to strangers.” Ford perches himself on the counter next to the coffee maker that’s started to gurgle. 

“Ugh, Ford, I can’t believe you drank that stuff...and... even after you saw it come out of his-” Stanley fiercely shakes his head. “Ok, change the subject, change the subject. Ok, ok, what else did we see when we were docked in Norway?” He says hurriedly, racking his brain to get his mind on literally anything else. 

“Hm... hm... oh! That siren was smokin’, remember her?” Stan smirks and the grimace on Ford’s face tells that he did, in fact, remember. “Heh heh, she was all over me, until someone had to butt in and ruin my chances.” 

“She was trying to drown you!” 

“...” Stan shrugs. “Still a solid ten.” 

Stanford gives him a completely withering look to which Stan heartily laughs and slaps his knee. 

“Ugh, Stan, are you kidding me?” he mumbles under his breath, not expecting an answer as he turns to remove the coffee pot from the machine. 

“Hey what’cha gettin' bent out of shape for? You’re the one who said there’d be babes on this trip and you just somehow failed to mention that they were man-eaters, you know, literally. I think she was literally going to devour me after she drowned me.” 

“I most certainly was not the one who said that, and I didn’t realize that ‘getting babes’ was such a strong motivator for you to come on this trip.” Ford grumbles, and if Stanley didn’t know any better, he’d say Ford sounded jealous. 

But he does know better. 

“Oh yeah, babes, number one motivator; babes and treasure.” Ford still looks miffed. “But, I mean, adventure is good too, I’m having...f...un.” He grimaces as if saying the word had left a sour taste in his mouth. 

“I’m sorry, what? What was that last word?” Ford asks teasingly cupping his ear and leaning forward. 

“C’mon Sixer, don’t make me say the F word twice.” 

Ford chuckles and thinks how ecstatic Mabel would be to hear her Grunkle Stan was having fun. He opens a cupboard and pulls out the two mugs she had sent them. They were handmade creations she constructed in her art class. ‘World’s Greatest Grunkle’ and ‘Also World’s Greatest Grunkle’ were painted on them in bright, glittery neon colors. Their shape was a little wobbly and they were hard to drink from without spilling, but you better believe Stan and Ford used them every single day. 

Stan smiles to himself as he watches Ford pour the coffee into the lovingly crafted mugs. He wonders how the kids are doing in Piedmont. The last package they received from them had been about two weeks ago, but it felt longer. Ford seems to be thinking along the same lines as he hands Stan his mug with a similar smile. 

“We should write them soon,” he says seeming to read Stan’s mind. “I’m sure Dipper would love to hear about the Ghost Ship we found last week, and I was thinking I could send him that old telescope we took from it.” 

“Yeah, I think he’d like that.” Stan says quietly before taking a sip of his coffee. 

Ford softly hums in acknowledgment leaning on the counter and looking with a distant gaze out the porthole. In the muted light, Stan can just make out the small smile still on his face. In this quiet moment, that schmaltzy feeling is back in Stan’s gut but this time he’s a little more accepting of it. 

“Looks like the snow has stopped,” Ford says having taken a moment to realize it. “I know it was- oh, Stan, look!” 

Without explanation, he pushes himself off the counter and rushes out of the cabin. The freezing rush of air that hits Stan when the door swings open makes Stan jump. When the door slams shut, Stan sits in confused silence for a beat. 

“Uh...” 

The door squeaks open a moment later and Ford pokes his head in. 

“Come on Stan, this might be our last time to see this.” With that vague comment he once again shuts the door. 

“Alright, alright, I’m goin’,” Stan answers as he gets up and pulls a blanket snug around his shoulders. He braces himself for the biting cold that will surely assault him once he opens the door. “This better be worth it, Sixer.” 

Sure enough, when he turns the handle and pushes it open, the cold seems to invade every inch of his body in an instant. He loudly curses and violently shudders as he hurriedly downs the last of his coffee hoping to find some relief from the steaming liquid. Ford hushes him as his shouted swearing echoes in the vast watery endlessness around them. 

“H-ho-holy f-f-fuck. Jesus, F-Ford, what did’ja w-want me to s-” 

“Look.” Ford says so quietly Stan barely hears him as his gaze is firmly set on the sky. He points up but Stan had already followed his eyes. 

Above them stretches massive veils of dancing greens and blues. The bright aurora seems to go on forever into the distance, with an equally endless backdrop of blackness that dramatically contrasts the vivid light. The gently flickering light casts a cyan glow onto everything below it. 

It hadn’t been their first time seeing the aurora, but the unbelievable brightness and movement of it had Stan staring in awe with his mouth agape. He looks at Ford in the pale light who has a huge dorky grin on his face. 

“I think this might be what I miss about the Arctic the most. The anomalies have been fascinating, but this natural phenomenon is just as otherworldly. Isn’t it gorgeous?” Ford asks dreamily. 

“Yeah...sure,” he replies still a little awestruck. 

Stanford seems to misinterpret his dispassionate response, however. 

“You really aren’t even a little moved?” Ford says with a sigh. 

“That’s not true!” And it wasn’t! Actually, he was feeling so moved it was a little weird. He was in a weird mood tonight, thinking about nature and love like some kind of hippie. 

“Honestly Stan, it almost seems like it doesn’t matter to you where we go and what we see.” 

“I mean... it doesn’t really matter to me.” As soon as he says this, he realizes that it probably didn’t sound like he wanted it to. 

“What?!” Ford turns to him looking genuinely exasperated. 

“I didn’t mean-” 

“It doesn’t matter to you? Does that mean...” he trails off and Stan can already see him internally jumping to conclusions. Ford looks panicked for a brief moment which then seems to morph into uncertainty, and whatever incorrect conclusion Ford has come to in his head, Stan quickly tries to shoot it down. 

“Stanford,” Stan starts, grabbing Ford by his shoulders. “whatever your thinkin’, it ain’t like that. Look, the reason I said that stuff don’t matter is ‘cause,” he pauses. 

He can’t say something that embarrassing… 

But Ford looks so insecure. 

“is ‘cause...” he tries again, but as he stares into his brother’s uncertain eyes, he can feel heat rising in his face. He lets go of his shoulders, turns around, and covers his mouth. 

“Because what, Stanley?” 

“‘Cause,” he sighs. That schmaltzy feeling was really relentless tonight. “It really don’t matter where we’re going together as long as we’re going together...you know?” Ford looks like he doesn’t know and Stan sighs again, covering his face because he knows it must be getting redder by the minute. 

“What I’m tryin’ to say is,” he says hurriedly, his eyes dart between Ford’s and the aurora as if he was silently asking the display in the sky to somehow help him. “It doesn’t matter to me where we go ‘cause what matters is... I’m...with........you.” 

He turns around because he doesn’t want to see how his brother will react to what had to be the cheesiest line he’s ever fed anyone. Really. Even in all his years of talking people up in the Mystery Shack, this takes the cake. It sounded like a line from one of those period dramas on the Boring Old Lady Movie Channel. 

“So, there!” he yells making it sound like he had just told him off rather than profess his affection. “That’s what I meant. There ya go. Are ya happy now?” 

He waits for an answer with his eyes closed and his arms crossed, but Ford says nothing. For a moment he panics wondering if that was too much; if it sounded more than brotherly. Before he can turn around though, Ford gently wraps his arms around Stanley from behind. He rests his forehead on the back of Stanley’s neck and softly laughs. 

“Oh, Stan,” Ford says in a low voice and Stan feels weak in the knees. Stanford lifts his head and rests his chin on Stan’s shoulder. “When did you become so sappy?” 

Stan doesn’t answer because all he can focus on is Stanford’s thumb tenderly rubbing the side of his belly. Stan doesn’t think he can handle this, and he quickly turns around. 

“Heh, I-I don’t know,” he says, and he really doesn’t. “Me, Stanley Pines, the most rough and tough and hardened man you could know, and I seem to be gettin’ soft in my old age. Maybe... maybe it’s those damn kids I spent the Summer with.” 

“Mm, I don’t know about that,” Not staying separated from Stanley for long, Ford takes one side of the blanket Stan has around his shoulders and drapes it around his own. Ford snuggles against Stanley’s side and Stan thinks his heart is really not gonna get a break tonight, is it? “I think you’ve secretly always been this way.” 

“Heh heh, could be. Could be ya caught me.” Stan slings and arm around Ford and rubs his shoulder; Ford responds by resting his head on Stan’s. Stan doesn’t notice the cold anymore. 

They stay like this for a long while, the aurora above still dancing in silence. It’s so quiet and it’s so warm and it’s... good. Really good. 

“You know,” Ford begins quietly, turning his head and Stan nearly shudders feeling Ford’s breath ghost his neck. “It might be the quiet out here that I’ll miss the most. Not a single man-made sound. Just the waves and the wind.” He removes his own glasses so that he can better fit his face in the crook of Stan’s neck. 

Huh. 

“But that’s not what really matters.” He says giving Stan’s forearm a gentle squeeze. 

Huh. 

Stan thinks. And he thinks hopefully, and probably foolishly, that maybe what he thought he could never possibly have, might be more attainable than he had thought. Maybe it isn’t wishful thinking. Maybe Ford wants it too. Maybe it could even work. 

Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider leaving a comment if it's not too much trouble :)
> 
> *The Hacci Dimension is a reference to hacci sweater knit fabric.  
> *Weftwarps are also a vague reference to knitting, weft and warp are two parts in which yarn or thread is turned into fabric and sounds kinda like an alien name when you put them together :P  
> *I was looking in Journal 3 again and in the (blessed) drawing toward the end where Stanford's head is on Stan's shoulder I had just noticed the little detail of the bowl of bacon on the floor and the bowl of Toffee Peanuts in Stan's lap. Cute detail! (I could literally stare at that drawing for hours I love it so much I'm crying kkfjbe,rfhv)  
> ~The More You Know~
> 
> I have a new tumblr as well if you'd like to check it out, I'd appreciate it!: https://dejabooooo.tumblr.com/


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